


A System of Touch

by SvengoolieCat



Series: Sven's 007Fest '17 Scribbles [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond just needs a hug every once in a while, Fluff, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Snark, bed sharing, comparisons to cats, cute boffins, salty language, terrifying nurses who Have Had Enough, who doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 13:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: Anonymous prompt exchange: Bond learning to revel in cuddles/platonic touching





	A System of Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the song "Head over Heels" by Tears for Fears, which is one of the most 00Q songs I've found yet. And it fit the prompt, so win!

 

 

Stevens was a bloody menace.

“You’re the geek version of Trevelyan,” Q informed him, in tones that made it entirely clear that the comparison between the two firebugs was not a compliment. Stevens had the audacity to grin anyway. Q snapped on sterile gloves and inspected the shiny first degree burns on Stevens’ head and hands. The man had no hair whatsoever. What he didn’t shave, he regularly singed off. The effect was disturbing—no eyebrows or eyelashes took a bit to get used too—but Q had long become desensitized. He slathered on antibiotic burn cream while Stevens sat obediently under his hands.

Since Stevens regularly tried to blow himself up in new and exciting ways, as long as the man was conscious and lucid, Q had given up on sending the man to Medical by force. There were only so many battles Q could pick in a day, and he preferred to choose the ones he could win.

“I don’t think your eyebrows are ever going to grow back,” Q sighed. “It’s like looking at the second season of Matt Smith’s Doctor, when they were doing freaky things with his makeup.”

Stevens beamed even more. Q snapped his gloves off and tossed them in a biohazard bin.

“Thank you, Q,” Stevens said, attempting to look demure.

“Oh, shut up,” Q said giving Stevens’ shoulder a tap and a vague gesture that his minion should go find non-flammable trouble to get into.

Q saw the man off, heaved a sigh, and turned to the next metaphorical fire to put out. Bond dragged into Q Branch looking like Death’s favorite punching bag. The fact that he actually heard Bond approach was telling. The agent usually moved like a big cat, quiet and prowling.

“Have you been to Medical yet?” Q asked, 95% sure that he knew the answer already.

“I have.”

“Liar,” Q said. Bond blinked at Q’s unusual boldness. Q looked at his Branch’s extensive emergency kit. It was about the size of a suitcase, and outfitted for first aid treatments involving everything from papercuts to burns, broken bones, and poisons. And he already had it out.

“My office,” he said, gathering it all up and leading the way. Bond, curious, padded after him. “Sofa, please, and remove your shirt.”

“Why, Q, so forward of you,” Bond said. Q thought Bond might have tried to bat his eyes at him but the puffy black eye prevented it. He crunched up a cold pack to activate it and set it aside to chill while the agent disrobed.

Moving looked painful, so Q stepped forward to assist. Bond was too well trained to hide pain to make any sound of protest, but Q was infinitely careful in helping him remove the fitted suit jacket and he batted Bond’s scraped fingers away from the shirt buttons. After a few moments, Q had a half-naked double oh agent attempting to lounge seductively on his office sofa.

It wasn’t working, and after a moment, Bond just let out a gusty sigh and gingerly sat back.  

“If you have no objections, I’ll look you over here. No bullets?”

“No.”

“Any broken bones?”

A pause. “No.”

“Ribs, then.” Q nodded to himself, remembering the fight he’d heard through the comms, and snapped on a new pair of sterile gloves. A lot of the injuries looked shallow—nothing serious, but painful.

Q handed him a foil packet. “Ibuprofen,” he said, not at all surprised when Bond dry swallowed them. Bond froze when Q knelt by the sofa, one hand on Bond’s thigh to steady himself, and examining the cuts and bruises on Bond’s face. Nothing a bit of time and a few butterfly closures wouldn’t fix. He tilted Bond’s head just so, checking pupils and tracking, running his fingers through the short blond hair from forehead to his neck and shoulders. Mild concussion, he’d wager.

“Nothing feels out of place,” Q murmured, sweeping his fingers over cheekbones. The agent made a noise that could have been agreeable, could have been tired, or could have been a cat’s purr. Q was satisfied that there wasn’t any permanent damage, and gave Bond the now-cold icepack to hold over his eye and jaw.

“You don’t have any whiskey, do you?”

“This is a workplace, not a distillery, 007,” Q said. He turned his attention to the ribs. He wasn’t entirely sure, but there wasn’t much you could do for ribs except tape them anyway. He ran fingers over bruises, lightly pressing, pausing when the agent shivered under his hands.

“I’ll just wrap these up for you,” Q shuffled back in the kit and found what he needed, marginally aware of the icy blue gaze fastened on his face. The agent was still as the grave as Q maneuvered him by touch where he wanted him, and made quick work of wrapping the ribs.

_He must hurt_ , Q thought. Never was 007 so accommodating or amenable to doing as he was told. At 40, getting your arse kicked was a different experience than it was at 25, he guessed.

Content with his work, Q leaned back and beamed up at Bond. “Well then. That’s you mostly sorted.” Q rose. Folded over the back of the sofa was a fleece throw blanket, and Q reached for it now.

“Q?” Bond asked, eyeing him with something Q couldn’t identify.

“Take a nap, I’ll wake you every hour or so to make sure you don’t die. I have coding to do this morning anyway. When I’m satisfied that you’re not going to keel over, I’ll let you go.”

He pressed on Bond’s unhurt shoulder to indicated he should lay down and the agent offered no resistance. Absently, Q petted Bond’s hair, then tossed the blanket over him, lowered the lights in the office, and retreated to his desk to work. He missed the confused stare, and Bond finally allowing himself to sink into the cushions with a soft sigh, lulled into dozing by the sounds of soft jazz and the clicking of a keyboard as his Quartermaster kept watch over him.

Bond dropped off into sleep like a rock.

It became something of a routine. For minor injuries, Bond bypassed Medical whenever he could and went straight to his Quartermaster instead. Q patched him up, and tossed a fleece blanket over him that smelled like Q—bergamot and citrus and _safe_.

 

007_Q_007

“A little bird tells me you’ve become the unofficial mascot of Q-Branch,” Moneypenny said. Bond hung his overcoat on the rack, with his scarf. She circled around her desk, dark eyes shining with mischief as she brushed melting snow out of his hair and straightened his collar. He let her, not minding the fingers that set him all to rights.

“I’m not cute enough to be a mascot,” Bond told her.

“He’s really not,” Q said. He skirted around them both, wearing that god-awful anorak Bond would have given anything to burn in a trashcan somewhere. The Quartermaster looked harried and cold and cranky about it, and it was kind of adorable.

“I’m wounded,” Bond said. “You were supposed to disagree with me.”

Q shrugged off the terrible coat and the equally awful knit hat, and stood in the middle of Moneypenny’s domain looking like a disheveled grumpy kitten with a five o’clock shadow.

It was bad enough that Q dressed in suits that had *patterns* on them, with mismatched socks and a truly abominable collection of eyesore ties, but this was entirely too much. Bond and Moneypenny looked at each other once in complete accord, and then descended on the frazzled Quartermaster, tugging his clothes straight, and brushing snow off. Moneypenny produced a comb which Bond used to attack the wild mop of hair.

“Bloody hell, you two,” Q growled, ineffectively batting at them.

Bond put a firm, quelling hand at the juncture of Q’s neck and shoulder while he finished. Q huffed, but let him get on with it, even leaning into Bond’s touch just a bit.

Bond froze. Bond was easily the deadliest person in the room, and this man let him stand at his back, with his hands near his throat. Hands that had snapped many a neck and dealt out plenty of violence over the years when he wasn’t seducing lovely dangerous women and the odd man. Yet Q not only tolerated being under Bond’s hands but pressed back into them with the unselfconsciousness of a cat. Bond couldn’t remember the last time he touched someone without the intention to hurt or seduce. He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him without the intent to harm or seduce.

That was a lie, though, wasn’t it. Q touched him all the time, either in passing or when he was injured. An undemanding, quiet sort of touch that held no more expectation than Bond turn his head this way or that or tell him if something hurt.

Something in his chest tightened and Bond gentled his grip, his thumb sweeping across some tension knots, and feeling Q’s slow, purring  exhale more than he heard it.

“All right,” Bond said, reluctantly letting go. His hands felt branded with the heat from Q’s skin. “I will now deign to be seen in public with you. The scruff even makes you look older. All of fifteen, maybe.”

“Oh shut up, I overslept. I’ll shave after the meeting,” Q said. He absently rubbed at the shoulder where Bond had loosened a knot and almost said something, except there was M who looked between them all with narrowed eyes and suspicion.

 

007_Q_007

Bond was in town for the first anniversary of M’s death. He wasn’t sure if that was by design or not, but it gave him the opportunity to barricade himself in his stark apartment and drink himself from melancholy into a full-on black mood.

His phone chimed a couple of times, but he really couldn’t be arsed to care, so he ignored it.

He ignored the polite knock at his door, too.

He wedged himself into the corner of his overstuffed sofa, watching some kind of nature show on mute, and swigged straight from the bottle.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” a familiar voice floated to Bond’s ears, and then he heard lock picks scraping. Bond was blearily impressed at the speed his Quartermaster picked the lock and let himself in. He smelled garlic from the pizza Q brought with him, and then Q was padding into his living room.

Q took in the sight of the surly double-oh coiled up on the couch around a bottle of scotch, at the sparse apartment with art leaning against the walls, the TV on the floor, and stacks of books everywhere (he hadn’t bothered to get a bookcase yet).

He said, “This is just fucking pathetic, James Bond,” and dropped down on the sofa right next to Bond.

Q opened the two-liter soda and poured some into a plastic up, snagging Bond’s scotch to top it off before Bond snatched the bottle back. Good scotch, besmirched with soda. The travesty.

“Q,” Bond said, instead. “What are you doing here?”

“Running interference for your liver,” Q said, and handed him a plate of pizza. Bond debated refusing—he’d have to let go of the bottle to manage the plate, which was undoubtedly why Q had chosen pizza to begin with—but the smell of garlic and pepperoni was seductive and his Quartermaster was looking at him with those soft green eyes.

He let Q take the bottle and accepted the exchange of a plate full of pizza. Q un-muted the TV and they ate in slightly awkward silence.

“You didn’t answer the phone,” Q said, more quietly. He set his empty plate on the coffee table and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin with deliberate care. He was close enough that Bond could feel the heat emanating from him. “I was concerned. I thought perhaps you’d gone looking for…company. Or a drink and company. But then I checked up on you and saw that you were still home alone. And you didn’t answer when I called.”

Bond stared at Q, who resolutely stared at the screen as though meerkats were the most absorbing thing he’d ever seen. Through half a bottle of scotch and a few pieces of pizza, Bond saw the tension around Q’s eyes, in the ramrod-straightness of his spine as though poised for flight. Or a fight.

Q had worried for him. Had made time at the end of what was clearly a hellish day to detour to Chelsea to check on him, with the peace offering of pizza and a bottle of Coca-Cola to water down the scotch.

Bond, who numbered his friends on one hand with fingers left over, impulsively leaned over and pressed a close-mouth kiss to Q’s cheekbone, lingering a few moments longer than necessary, breathing in bergamot and citrus and gunpowder. Bond tipped a finger under Q’s chin and kissed him properly. He felt Q smile into it, but he didn’t push or encourage anything further. Q swayed just a little bit toward him, and when Bond pulled back, the boffin’s color was high and his eyes were sparkling.

Then he settled up against Bond, finally relaxing. “Meerkats are adorable,” he said. “I never realized how tiny they were until I saw some at the zoo. My cats would eat them and probably still be hungry.”

If Bond fell asleep, lulled by the alcohol and pizza, the heat of the body next to him, and the knowledge that no one was making  any demands on his person, he really couldn’t be blamed. If he woke up with a skinny boffin curled into him like a lanky cat, he didn’t mind that either.

 

007_Q_007

Bond didn’t get seriously hurt too often. But every once in a while he ended up in Medical and it was an unpleasant experience for everyone.

“007, get back in bed,” said the beefy nurse. Gretchen. German, still had the accent. She’d been with MI6 longer than Bond had, and was adept at manhandling even the most recalcitrant agents. He’d seen her lay 009 flat out once with a bit of jujitsu, and then bodily put him back to bed. If they sent Gretchen in to deal with someone, even a double-oh, the unruly patient was summarily vanquished every time.

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. Get your arse back in bed or I’ll fucking tie you down.”

Bond balked, but the world was beginning to go a bit gray at the edges and he felt short of breath so he didn’t put up more than a token resistance when she put him back in that hateful hospital bed.

“Concussion, second degree burns, severe smoke inhalation, and hopped up on a ridiculous amount of pain meds, but he’s _fine_ ,” she said. “Bloody double-ohs. This is the third time you’ve tried this today—it’s not working for you.”

“I don’t like it here,” he said, petulantly, and then coughed like a 80 year old chainsmoker.

“We don’t like you here, either,” she said. She put his oxygen mask back on and tucked the blanket in around Bond until he felt like he’d been swaddled. He’d have to remember to be mad about that later, when he didn’t feel so damn cold and achy. He grimly stared at the ceiling, resolved to endure his imprisonment in the icy, sterile, joyless room until he could plot a successful escape attempt.

“He’s all yours, Quartermaster. Please try to keep him distracted long enough for us to take a break.”

“I’ll do my best,” Q said. Warm fingers danced across the back of Bond’s hand. “Budge up, you,” he said. Bond shuffled over to the side of the bed, mildly shocked as the lithe Quartermaster hopped up beside him, toeing off his shoes.

Q fluffed Bond’s extra pillow and leaned back against the wall. He threw an extra blanket over Bond, and settled in with his tablet.

“She called you?” Bond pried his mask off enough to ask.

“Hmm,” Q said. He pulled up Candy Crush and absently flicked the screen. “Apparently I’m a double-oh whisperer. And they want to go to lunch without worrying that you’re going to escape.”

“So they send in the skinny boffin?” Bond asked. He pulled the extra blanket up to his chin, feeling petty but already warmer.

“Be nice, I doubt you could swat a fly at the moment.” Q absentmindedly pet Bond’s hair, fingers scratching through short blond hair.

“I’m not one of your damn cats,” Bond groused. Q snatched his fingers back.

“That doesn’t mean stop,” Bond said.

Q resumed petting. “You really are one of my cats, though,” he said. “Ornery, bitey, you spend most of your time in my presence napping, and seem to like getting petted. And you bring me dead things. Tech, usually, instead of birds and voles, but I’m not sure that’s better.”

Bond glowered at him, trying to find something to argue with. “I don’t purr,” he said.

Mischievous green eyes gleamed. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Bond blinked rapidly, but Q was already hitting the morphine drip and the world was getting fuzzy. “Go to sleep, Bond,” he heard, as fingers danced over his scalp.

A neat little idea popped into Bond’s head. He thought, _what the hell_. It was his bed, anyway. Bond flung an arm over Q’s waist and curled around the boffin, soaking in the body heat and the feeling of a living, breathing person beside him. A person who was safe, who would keep watch over him and let him rest and plot his eventual escape. Might even be sweet-talked into helping him escape. Q smoothed a hand down Bond’s spine, mindful of bruising, and Bond was out like a light.  

An hour later, Gretchen stuck her head in, and was greeted by the sight of the deadliest of the double-ohs tucked against his Quartermaster, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. Q sedately played a game on his tablet one arm curled loosely around broad shoulders.

Ah well, she’d seen weirder things. At least she’d get some work done now.  


End file.
